


i've never been a natural

by 5ambreakdown



Series: folklore [6]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: David Rose Loves Patrick Brewer, Introspection, M/M, Past Patrick/Rachel, Patrick Brewer loves David Rose, Patrick is happy, Queer Themes, and david is happy, general mention of david's not-great relationship history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5ambreakdown/pseuds/5ambreakdown
Summary: He’s not waiting for the next step, not eyeing the next few bullet points on a list of expectations he was handed before he could even read. He’s just happy, and he’s allowed to be just happy.or, when you end up in a life far happier than you had ever hoped for yourself
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: folklore [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925257
Comments: 14
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> y'all, i struggled with this prompt. i wanted to do it justice by how much i saw david in it, but nothing i wrote felt good enough. then my country started falling apart and i needed to write about life ending in goodness and fullness, and it fell perfectly into this prompt. this was a relief to write amidst everything happening in the united states, and i can only hope it offers you a brief break from the chaos.
> 
> have those tough conversation with friends and family. check in on your loved ones. wear a hecking mask and defend democracy. stay safe, i love you all 🖤
> 
> chapter one is patrick, chapter two is david. title from "mirrorball" by taylor swift.

It didn’t happen as often as he thought it would. He thinks, perhaps, because it’s more settled into his bones, ingrained into his life and ways. Or maybe it’s just because he becomes so caught up in it, lost to the rush of _David David David_ that he forgets to feel lucky. 

He almost didn’t have this. One brash decision, a breaking point he didn’t wait out, and he found home.

It would have been so easy, so simple, to miss all of this. If he waited to leave until morning like his mom begged, if he held back his choked _“Rachel, I can’t,”_ if he had stopped for gas later or earlier than he did and missed Ray’s side-by-side room and job postings.

Maybe he would have always found his way to Schitt’s Creek, someway or another. It’s not guaranteed that David would, had things been different; so many things needed to fall into place, perfectly so. But they hadn’t been different, they did fall into place. Mr. Rose bought the town. Eli fucked them over. The government didn’t claim Schitt’s Creek when their assets were taken. Roland’s car ran out of gas and David’s phone died without a charger, so he didn’t escape to New York. David was tracked down to the Mennonite farm and taken home. The Roses never sold the town. 

_The fated flap of a butterfly wing._

It all felt too precious, too perfect. And it was his. Patrick gets to have this, claim his beautiful life without worrying “what if’s” to dust. There were no “what if’s” to question, nothing about his life to change or fix.

He wakes up beside his beautiful, thoughtful, caring husband each morning. He gets to wake up _happy,_ without unnamed fears and dread holding him to the mattress. He _owns his own business_ with his _husband._ Never, not once before he packed up his life into a few small boxes in his dying car, did he ever let himself imagine he could have this. This peace, this contentment.

He’s not waiting for the next step, not eyeing the next few bullet points on a list of expectations he was handed before he could even read. He’s just happy, and he’s allowed to be just happy.

He gets to make David laugh, unabashed, joyous laughs that are the complete opposite of grace and poise but light him up from the inside out, no sound more beautiful.

He gets David’s love, his trust. Few people have been gifted it, trusted to not abuse his vulnerability and break him with it. Patrick gets that everyday. David’s soft smiles, tender touches, his secrets and his losses and his joys. 

He gets the rest of his life with this wondrous, impossible man that, somehow, for some unknown reason, Patrick gets to love and be loved by. It’s a goddamn miracle, one that Patrick won’t question.

And sometimes he is caught off guard by it all, a sudden rush of _this is your life,_ catching in his throat and sparking a fire in his lungs. It’s a thought he used to have, before David, before Rose Apothecary, before Schitt’s Creek, but also painted in the negative. In bed, Rachel’s naked form curled around his bare chest. His ribs felt like a cage, restricting everything his insides were trying to scream out of fear they would be his undoing. His life was slacks and button downs, 9-5 computer monitors blaring back cells and decimals, a cozy apartment and a cozy girlfriend turned cozy fiancée. A Master’s degree from an established University and a 1st place baseball trophy with his name engraved still sitting in esteem behind the glass walls of a case in the hall of his old high school. His life was baseball on Tuesday nights and Saturday evenings, earl grey tea in plain white mugs set atop the smooth, rigid surface of the store-bought coffee table Rachel picked out. He was in bed by 10 at night (though usually never asleep until three or four hours later) and up by 6:30 in the morning to the harsh sunlight breaking through the windows despite the tightly drawn blinds.

His life was beautiful to anyone looking on the external: set to marry his best friend, a stable job with an upwards trajectory, a tight knit relationship with parents and extended family, and a sociable, bubbly friend group. At the details it fell apart. Fights with Rachel were routine, if not exact clockwork. His job was menial, pointless work that served no purpose but to cross an item off a list, something easily done by another. His friends were plenty, and he drowned in their buzzing presence, numbing himself in the familiarity of a beer at the same bar top each Friday evening, the routine of conversation for the sake of something to say. Ask Katie about her young kids, ask Mark about his not-quite-ailing mother. Tyler was taking on a remodel of his kitchen, Hannah was just promoted at work. He spoke with his parents frequently, visiting for dinner once a week on Sundays at 5pm sharp, but their closeness had faded behind the walls he erected before he knew he was doing it, the walls he grew up behind as his friends flourished. 

Patrick never flourished, not actually, he simply learned how to project the growth for others to see. Inside, he felt stilted, the exoskeleton of a bug already wilted away. He trapped himself away before anyone could realize he had done it, even himself.

And then he broke, the walls about to burst brick by brick, his heart nearly bleeding through the cracks of weakening ribs. He was crumbling to pieces and couldn’t stand the thought of someone seeing, someone knowing. He knew they would look at him, look at his life, and wonder how far out of his mind he was. He had no reason to break, no reason to feel like he was dying all over again.

Perfection. Stability. Security. Routine. Plan. 

Except the plan was coming to an end, the checklist reaching the final page. And then it was just the rest of his life. Never another chance, never room to escape and live within the hope that things will change. He was rapidly falling towards the last bullet points, realizing with his pump of blood through his veins that time was running out for things to click into his place. He kept waiting, kept trying to find when the pieces would snap, sliding into place so he could feel the wind around him and be liberated instead of suffocated. Others felt it, but he never did, the language of falling and floating only known to him in a deafening context. It never came, and he was running out of ways to force it.

He spent his life in experimentation, living through a process of trial and error. He would observe, creating his hypothesis and putting into place a test. If his hypothesis was proven incorrect (they usually were) and whatever change he made didn’t work (they usually didn’t), he would reanalyze, reassess until he had a new hypothesis, a new theory to test. Date nights on Thursdays. Surprise bouquets and other gifts once a month. Home cooked meals. He survived by test and trial, opportunity for more and new and seeing how things could fit. But every day presented less and less opportunity, the ways to make things fit diminishing.

Nothing was working, and there was nothing he could do. So he did the one thing he hadn’t done yet: he ran. 

He ran before he could give it second thought, breaking Rachel’s heart before she could see how his own already had. He ran and ran and ran, no intent of stopping unless there was no possible means to go on. It was something to do, something to bury the piercing blaze of inadequacy and wrongness.

He ran until he stopped, and he stopped in front of David Rose.

Well, David Rose in Ray Butani’s office-slash-home, but David Rose nonetheless.

Schitt’s Creek calmed the buzzing under his skin more than the running had, bringing out the most natural smiles he had felt in years by the cheerfully horrifying tales of the town’s single waitress and the mayor that left you with more questions and no answers. But there was still something forced about it, recognition springing to his mind that he was smiling, conscious of it the whole time.

Then David Rose stumbled into his life, all nervous energy and hope that he was trying to rein back, a glimpse into what Patrick, should he be so lucky, could possibly coax out. So he made the opportunity. He saw an opening, saw the potential of something good and right, so he ran towards it. For possibly for the first time, Patrick Brewer ran _towards_ something because of that little tug in his gut. Not because it made sense, not because it upheld the invisible responsibilities tied to the Brewer name. It _made_ no sense, the spontaneity and uncertainty of it all fighting against all he was brought up to regard the world. Despite every bit of rationale that told him just how disastrous this could be, would be, he wanted it. God, he wanted. And, for once in his thirty-some years, that was enough.

Instinct packed his duffel bag, turned on the ignition. Instinct had him stop for gas and dialed the number on the obnoxious yellow paper tacked to the bulletin board by the gas station cash. 

Instinct wasn’t driving him into Rose Apothecary with a bold offer and failed attempts at an even bolder confession. Patrick was doing what felt right, because it shone with the promise of happiness, of peace and contentment; and he was done denying himself that.

Even if he hadn’t known it at the time, unable to express in so many words just how much he was suffocating in his old life, he never saw reason enough to leave it. An unsettling feeling didn’t justify a dramatic shift, so he pushed on in the direction of fulfilled expectations. 

Schitt’s Creek had no expectations, and it was the most freeing fucking thing in his life. Patrick was in full control of what he wanted, how others saw him and what they expected of him. And what he wanted was to explore whatever this thing was with David. It was one of the best decisions he’s ever made.

By the most improbable chance, he found his husband, the love of his life. Patrick used to hate thinking in ideals of fate, thought his friends were dramatic when they talked about the intensity of wanting, how sex and love and intimacy could be so earthshattering. They were hyperbolic, projecting what they wanted onto what they had. Patrick was a realist, and knew his life with Rachel would be a smart, obvious choice.

Nothing about being with David presented itself as the smart or obvious choice, but he felt that click. That snapping into place he had spent his entire adult life waiting for, working for, just. Happened. 

The 2am phone calls suddenly made sense. The dopey smiles and stupid fearlessness he saw in his friends a decade earlier he noticed happening to himself. The high he rode all the way back to Ray’s the night of David’s birthday was indescribable. He felt the ever constant buzzing beneath his skin still, his stomach settling and his lungs working effortlessly. 

He finally, finally, felt like he was steered onto the right path, nudged in the proper direction. The direction that led him here, to David’s hair in his face as he blinks awake in their bed. He’s witness to the small kisses David plants wherever accessible as he begins to wake. The muffled little groans, the small shifts, the tugging around his waist (or arm, or leg, or whatever appendage is within David’s grasp) - those are all his.

David groans as the bliss of waking up to his enveloped husband is overpowered by the light of the morning and realization that he can’t stay in this space forever, despite how vehemently he argues for it. Patrick laughs - _laughs_ \- when he wakes up now. Because he wakes up to this, his life where the joy out shadows the pain and the lows. A life where he has a sure place to run to, a pair of strong, capable arms to collapse into. 

He gets to be seen, be known. With a passing glance, David knows the state he’s in and how to be there when it’s bad, how to encourage it when it’s good. Stevie can spot a lie on his face from the other side of the continent, calling his bullshit when he needs it, even if he doesn’t want it. 

His life is so full of love, so full of goodness. It’s sometimes impossible to really believe that it’s his, that he somehow did something to come within walking distance of deserving it. But he has it, and far be it from him to question a truly good thing. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for non-graphic mentions of david's shitty history. it's all just short references in the past tense.
> 
> stay safe, wear a mask, drink water.

He wakes up to Patrick’s soft, even breaths in little puffs on his neck, head tucked on the juncture of his shoulder and an arm slung loosely over his waist. And it still surprises him sometimes. It surprises him that it still surprises him, multiple years and six exchanged rings later, which is in itself surprising. All in all, the whole ordeal is very confusing and leaves David a little breathless and lightheaded.

He saw a picture of himself from the Before Times the other week, his fucked-out and fucked-up glory wrapped up in expensive clothing that hung over his much thinner frame, eyes no doubtedly slightly bloodshot and surrounded by puffy dark circles hidden behind his signature frames.

He recognizes the sweater, a piece he mourned for weeks following his arrival in Schitt’s Creek after he’d been unable to grab it in time in the rush of movers and panic and heated exchanges with every other person who looked in his direction. Now, though. Now, he can’t see past the armor, past the defenses and fog he buried himself in those days.

It’s not like he didn’t know he was absolutely miserable at the time. He actively recognized that he brought home a constant stream of bodies and bottles as a means to forget he only had a long list of temporary solutions at his fingertips. A problem was solved with each shirt dropped to the floor of his apartment, only to be presented with a new one when that shirt was picked up and smoothed over the body of someone else before they made their quiet escape. His front door shut before his eyes could open, and that was that.

It’s just. He thought he hid his pain so well. But it’s there, as clear as his mind wasn’t. To be fair, he didn’t exactly surround himself with people who would give a fuck about his emotional state. Given how purely transactional his relationships were, it’s a wonder he thought about putting any effort at all into appearing even slightly more together than he felt.

Alexis was in a featured interview after leading the promotion of multiple Interflix hits, and she (rightfully so) mentioned David here and there, talking about their fall from grace and the home they found in Schitt’s Creek. The article, unbeknownst to them until it was published, featured a few photos of David before his prime, as gently worded by Jocelyn after she _so_ graciously shared her opinions on the piece.

David was sent into a small spiral from there, hating to be reminded of his life before, when he was a resource and a contact, a good time and gateway for better professional prospects. Nothing too severe, but he was quiet, a little solemn. Patrick didn’t make a fuss, just sent David to the back with the clipboard of inventory sheets, neither of them mentioning that it included more than they planned on completing that day. He drove them home after closing five minutes before the hour, announcing pizza would be arriving shortly, so David “better get his ass into something comfy and narrow the prospective movie list to at least five.” He was sent upstairs to change with a peck on the cheek and slap on the hip, only to turn and see his husband smiling back on him softly, his eyes warm and loving and all the other gooey shit he thought was a marketing hoax on the part of Hallmark.

Despite their fickle presence in his youth (and well into adulthood), David saw the love his parents shared. Something solid and sure, tried and tested and all the better for it. It was immovable, so much of a constant as the money had felt. At the end of each night, they had each other, as inevitable as the revolving door that was David’s excuse for a love life. 

Except it’s not that, it never was that, because those things - the black cards and long list of exes and unfortunate nights yet to happen - all came to an end. Eli happened. Schitt’s Creek happened. And his parents - they didn’t collapse. They somehow grew stronger, more of a unit, a team. It was obvious to anyone they found home in one another, even in the rare instance they found themselves on opposite sides of the room; Johnny and Moira.

So, yeah, David knew love existed. It was just something other people had, other people who weren’t David Rose. Once he saw the ten plus engagement or wedding photos posted by some of his exes, he ruled out that it was just the people he attracted. To soothe the ache, the voices that crept up when the other side of bed settled into a biting cold, David convinced himself that he just didn’t date people who wanted relationships, and that was fine. It was fine, because if they didn’t want it, he didn’t have to want it. Mutual interests and intents and all that. But his Instagram feed, filled with exes he still followed and who still followed him (usually), was consumed with bridal gowns and tuxes and awful floral arrangements. And that, well - it’s hard to stay convinced that you’re not the problem when the only other person capable of holding blame is on some tacky, blissed out honeymoon. 

People didn’t marry David Rose. David Rose got the tab at the bar, the quick and messy blowjobs on the sticky floor of a bathroom stall. He got surprise open relationships and break-ups via text, STD scares and disregarded safewords. He got uncommunicated threesomes and partners fucking nameless people in his bed. He got unwanted bruises and scratches and blackouts and benders and eye-rolls if he ever dared voice a discomfort. David Rose didn’t get forever.

And he thought, finally, in Schitt’s fucking Creek, that he would be okay without anyone by his side, a lifelong partner. He craved it, he always did. He desperately wanted that intimacy, wanted someone to see right through him in a way that was grounding and comforting instead of just fucking terrifying. He wanted to know and be known. But that wasn’t going to happen, so why try and force it? He could build something, find fulfillment in his professional endeavors instead.

The Blouse Barn fell through, but the store was his. The lease had his name on it, his journal and sketchbook and notes app overflowing with ideas to try and manifest everything that was swirling in his head. For once in a very long time, or maybe ever, the buzzing was nice, leaving him feeling warm and accomplished instead of like he was drowning. He was overwhelmed and nervous but it was exciting. He was really doing it. 

He walked into Ray’s office (studio? home? building?) with a seemingly simple task, just one step in the list of things left to do. He expected something… different; it was Ray after all, so the sight of Will and Theresa and some sort of sports accessory was not too earth shattering. But he was absolutely not expecting to be _accosted_ by some unassuming boy-next-door type with _very_ nice shoulders and legs. Boy-next-door type was snarky, too. Snippy. Also incredibly unexpected. But he was sweet, too. Somehow, underneath the bad sports references and jabs, he seemed to want to help David, not taunt him back into the hole he crawled out of. 

The warm, familiar teasing turned into unnecessary visits, into investment proposals, into a confidant and someone trustworthy. Genuinely trustworthy and kind. And he liked David, had wanted to _join_ David. Patrick came _to David._ And that was probably the most unexpected thing of all.

Patrick stayed and he didn’t make David feel guilty over it. He was warmth and safety and sarcasm personified. He stayed through the whole Sebastien debacle, could detect something was wrong the moment the innocuous little bells rang over David’s head. He was sympathetic without a hint of condescension, only concern and support for David. And that was new, very, very new. Once assured that David was settled, he walked over to the café and came back with coffee and two bags full of greasy appetizers. If he wasn’t bone tired, David would have tackled him to the floor and kissed him right then and there in the middle of their store. Instead, he watched as Patrick wordlessly placed their food on the counter and locked the door (an adorable but unnecessary move considering they weren’t even open yet) and ushered David behind the curtain. 

They sat on the floor atop broken down boxes with their feast laid out between them in the styrofoam containers. Patrick let David talk. He didn’t interrupt except for a few scoffs and mumbled curses, but always in defense of David. So they sat and ate and talked until David’s voice became hoarse from laughter instead of tears. They finished the food ( _“I think we’re going to be regretting_ this _particular decision for the next week, Patrick.”_ ), moving to sit against the small space of bare wall when standing up became a non-option. Shoulders pressed together in the tight space, it was peaceful. David had someone on his side, someone reliable who wouldn’t walk away at a mere glimpse of Sebastien’s seduction. David was pretty sure Patrick was ready to punch the guy if he ever laid eyes on him. 

Patrick offered to stay late at the store with David if he wanted more time away from the motel, so when they went to lock up two hours later than normal, Patrick gripped David’s biceps and told him to call or text for any reason, a voice that was all sincerity and strength and goodness. He did text Patrick, letting him know his mom was tricked into the photoshoot, telling him he was about to do something stupid but necessary. And Patrick didn’t judge, didn’t reprimand. He just said _You’re a good person, David. Be safe._

The next day, he walked into their store, leather jacket shoved to the back of the closet and replaced with something softer. He held a tea in his hand, leaving it on the counter with a light smile that matched Patrick’s. Patrick reached under the counter, his smile turning bashful as he placed a to-go cup from the café in front of David. He took a sip, the caramel and espresso stirring in him a warmth that he was 87% sure actually had nothing to do with the drink.

They didn’t talk about that day, not for a while at least. About five months in, David was lying against Patrick’s chest, both of them enjoying the peace left in the wake of Ray’s impromptu trip to Brebner’s. There wasn’t enough time for anything involving zero-to-minimal clothing, but this. This was nice. And it was almost too nice, so naturally David thought it would be best to just fast forward to the inevitable.

“I fucked him.” _How eloquent, dumbass._

“I’m sorry?” And, yeah, Patrick was definitely more than a little fondly amused.

Groaning and burrowing himself further into Patrick’s solid form, breathing him in as if it would be the final time he’d be allowed to have this beautiful man like this. It very well might be.

“Well technically _he_ fucked _me_ but the point is-”

“Still a little lost here, David.” Patrick tightened his arms around him, which, well. That didn’t help David at all.

“Sebastien. When he- when he came here? To get the, um, memory card… I- I slept with him.” Breath. Okay, that wasn’t so bad? “I mean it was the only thing I knew would work for sure and I didn’t really enjoy it? I don’t know how the fuck I stayed with him for so long the first time around. I didn’t want to sleep with him, though! I just wanted to get my mom’s photos back. Nothing to do with Sebastien. I would have done it if it was Ted! Well, I would never sleep with Ted because he is _very_ straight and not the kind of straight guy who would sleep with another guy as a fun one time thing, you know? Anyway, I didn’t want to risk breaking into this room and-”

“David, sweetheart? I know you slept with him.”

“I- you- what?”

Patrick just chuckled softly, somehow pulling David closer against him. “The implications of your texts were pretty clear.”

“Oh. And you. You still wanted... this,” he gestured to his whole self, shimmying his shoulders a bit to really emphasize the point.

“Yes, David. I still wanted you. Maybe even more once I saw what you were willing to do for your family.” Patrick kissed his hair, and that was that. 

And it’s been that. All these years later, and Patrick is still kind and understanding. Gentle with David not for fear that he’ll break, but because he deserves it. And isn’t that a wild fucking concept?

A younger David would have scoffed at the idea of having all of this for real: a partner who loved him wholly and unselfishly, a beautiful home, a successful business he co-built from the ground up, actual friends he could rely on. David built a life, the ones you hear about in best selling novels or quirky family comedies that felt too good to be based on anything real.

That’s what David gets to have. Love and warmth and security and safety. It’s really great, is what it is.

So sometimes when his old insomnia comes creeping back and his mind won’t stop buzzing, he’ll watch the even rise and fall of his husband’s chest. He’ll burrow into his side, feeling his heart thumping, a grounding presence, a reminder that he’s safe now. David is truly okay now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can y'all believe i actually posted twice this month.
> 
> find me on tumblr! [@5ambreakdown](https://5ambreakdown.tumblr.com/)


End file.
